Cutting Ties
by Nanaille
Summary: Alex Rider never came back from his mission in Egypt, nearly six years ago. Despite everyone believing he has died a long time ago, Mrs Jones hangs at the faint idea that, maybe, there's still hope to find him and bring him home. Maybe she's right, but wherever he is, he will need help to find the right path. Slight AU
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer : I don't own anything.

AN : English is not my first language. Please, be kind with me :) (I need a beta, by the way!)

* * *

Night was falling. In the west sky, hues of orange and red were slowly darkening. Millions of stars were bejewelling the deep velvet of the dark firmament. A crispy wind, cold and sharp, was howling furiously between the tall buildings. Behind the thin protection of his package, Dale Rierx took a quick glance at his watch. He let his load drop softly on the roof ground, and crouched smoothly, the back against the parapet.

Focused, the young man opened the black, dull case with swift gestures despite his gloves. Leisurely, with the assurance brought by long years of practice, he began to assemble the rifle. It was a robust weapon, well known for its accuracy and good range. With almost fond motions, Dale finished to put it together. He checked the work done with a keen eye: a jammed rifle was the last thing he would want tonight.

The wind was ruffling his long, dark locks, sending them wildly in front of his eyes. His black leather jacket helped him to keep warm in the freezing twilight. The city was faintly murmuring dozens of stories below. This close to the sky, Dale could easily imagine himself truly alone. He took a deep, rejuvenating breath. He could feel the tension slowly intensifying, and his shivers were not all due to the cold.

He exhaled slowly before straightening up slightly, and assessed the surroundings.

The building he had chosen was situated far from the target. His position was not the closest, nor had the most convenient line of sight. On the other hand, it had the benefits of not being under heavy surveillance. Dale had been observing the vicinity for months, and had spotted this place relatively quickly. It was finally the perfect place to be at this time.

Lights were on in the target's flat. Despite having spent days and nights observing it, Dale had never been able to spot the woman get in or get out of it. This had brought indirectly a precious information: another way existed for security purposes.

This fact had led him building the operation he planned to execute tonight. Every fortress, every protection system has its flaws.

Letting drop binoculars, he let a sudden smile adorning his features.

_Last one thing to do before being fully ready_. He pulled out a tiny box from the inner pocket of his jacket, and opened it with careful gestures. Inside, he removed a small syringe, tugged away the collar of his turtleneck, and injected himself the drug through the carotid. The relief came instantly. Blissfulness inundated him, taking away stress and anxiety. Like the sand after the wave, he felt released from useless thoughts. His mind was sharpened for the next few hours and the pain, always looming, always menacing, would be contained far away.

* * *

_Entry 57.b: Protocol is going ahead. Subject is not lenient. Near death has already occurred three times. The loss of the subject is not acceptable: he has to be broken soon._

* * *

Tulip Jones was in her kitchen, busy to make herself a full pot of coffee. Sounds were curiously muffled in the atmosphere, and even the rumbles of the machine failed to put a semblance of life in her home. She let out a sigh. Work awaited her, like every night. It was the sole thing that managed to keep old shadows and whispers aside, on the far back of her mind. Lately, these shadows were much rasher, bringing themselves on the front when work and personal history echoed together.

The head of the MI6 shook herself off her dark musings when the cafetiere drilled petulantly, signalling the end of its job. Tulip grabbed the coffee pot along with a mug, and made her way towards her office. No sugar nor milk to make the drink softer.

The room was on the back of the flat and had no opening. Tulip liked to let the door unclosed, and let the shimmer flooding freely through the huge window of her living room overlooking London. At this hour, the city glinted and lived with the last shake of activity before the deep slumber brought by the dead of the night. Tulip found herself focusing better here, with the perspective of long hours working with no distraction or interruption. She sat before her desk, whose corners were full of paper piles menacing to fall over. Directly in front of her, was laying neatly a single folder. Across was typed in bold letters: TOP SECRET – HIGHLY CLASSIFIED. She opened it by a flick of her wrist, and began to leaf through it while sipping her warm beverage.

Few minutes' later, brow creased and peppermint in mouth, she stopped her reading. She was examining the picture of a young man, who was sitting casually near a white car. It was blurred due to the motion and the zooming, but it was possible to distinguish his face. He had high cheekbones and an aristocratic jaw, and a scornful smile seemed to be tugged at his lips. Behind his shades, it was impossible to determine the direction of his gaze, but he was apparently gazing at the photographer. Dark hair framed his handsome face.

Tulip had been looking at this picture every night since it was in her hands. Too many agents had died on the field before one of them was finally able to bring this crucial information.

Leaning backwards, Tulip stretched her back.

After the fall of Scorpia, nearly six years ago, the terrorism world had been left in shambles. New organizations were founded, blooming like daisies. Scores were settled between past and new leaders, leaving the world at peace for a few years. Now, times had changed, and few of these organizations had emerged victorious. One in particular was on the right path to become the next Scorpia. It was not currently nearly as powerful, but it was growing rapidly, and disposed of a few potent assets.

Tulip flipped a leaf, and the Chinese symbol of SAN appeared. The three horizontal lines, the bottom one a bit longer than the other two, represented the ideogram for the number three. SAN seemed to have its roots in China, obviously. In only three years, it had gained a lot of territory rapidly, between clever alliances and swift eliminations.

Its leader was well known by the MI6: after all, the Dr. Three had a long history of terrorism behind him.

* * *

_Entry 63.d: Moulding a mind through sheer pain is an interesting concept, and this opens new exciting paths for our next researches. However, it is regrettable that it takes this long to adequately shape and control adequate subject material. _

* * *

Dale was in position, waiting. With one last overlooking glance, he wedged the rifle against his shoulder and tilted his head to place his right eye just behind the scope. Calmly, he scanned the surroundings of his target. He spotted four snipers where he expected them. Logically, only a few positions were relevant for this kind of protection job. Common sense was often taking over the laborious seek of unpredictability.

In front of the building, four men in uniforms were standing alert. Six more, this time in civilian clothes, were dispatched in different places of the street, trying to remain inconspicuous somewhat successfully.

Dale checked his watch. _It's time_.

Indeed, a delivery truck stopped against the sidewalk. The driver stepped out, took a huge package from behind the truck, and made his way toward the guarding men.

Dale raised his left hand, a tiny remote cradled in his palm, and flipped the switch.

A sudden blackout occurred, and rampant darkness filled streets and buildings. Only car headlights ripped it occasionally. On the roof, the young man could hear cries of fear and screeches of tires intertwining together. He waited a few seconds, and saw lights returning only in the targeted building. Their emergency generator was taking over. He smiled and flipped another switch.

A flash of blinding brightness this time, followed close by a resounding explosion. Dale had closed his eyes to preserve his night vision. He opened them slightly in time to see a giant ball of fire engulfing the vicinity of the front door, where the delivery man had brought the package a minute prior. Raising slightly the end of his rifle, he targeted the huge window situated on the twenty-third floor, and pulled the trigger four times. The shots were fired with deadly accuracy, and the special bullets embedded themselves in the concrete, on the four corners of the pane. One last flipping of switch and the bullets exploded. As expected, they were not enough to rip the thick armour open, but a huge fissure appeared on the wall around the window, and debris started to fall over.

_Chaos is now entering the field. _

* * *

_Entry 68.c.3: The confusion state is an interesting condition to work with. The possibilities are near limitless, but we cannot afford to ruin the subject's potential. Our next objective is the__maintaining of the retrograde amnesia. Inducing an association between withdrawal __syndrome and mental conditioning is the next logical step of the protocol_.

* * *

Tulip was beginning to feel a familiar headache pounding behind her tired eyes. SAN disposed of a few very deadly operatives. Their reputation had been hard-earned. One in particular had made his code-name well renowned. Vesper was known to be the right hand of the Dr Three. He was his personal hound, sent after his enemies like a rabid hunter and seemed to never have failed an assassination. A couple of her agents had lost their life by his hand. It was his picture that she has been studying obsessively for months.

Vesper had remained a mystery for nearly two years. Nobody would know his face or his name. Fortunately, information had been gathered and anonymous tips had been sent to her three months ago, so MI6 was not dealing with a ghost anymore.

She stood up brusquely and took a few steps to relax herself. Her walk led her on a familiar path, the one she took often to her strong-box carved in the wall. She opened it, and took a thick, worn folder lying on the top shelf.

She came back slowly at her desk, and placed the folder next to the other one, still open at Vesper's picture. Due to years of manipulating it, she knew every page, every words of it by heart. She opened it occasionally to take a look at the pictures. Memory of faces and expressions had the sad tendency to fade with time, blurring in a false reconstruction of reality. Indeed, she pictured in herself the face of Alex Rider always like the first time she had met him, nearly seven years ago. In her head, he would still have baby fat rounding his cheeks, and his laughing eyes would be still inhabited with light. He was a child back then, only fourteen years old.

Tulip had seen his innocence slowly taken away from him. Light had faded, and softness had been reaped out to be replaced by cold harshness. She didn't like to remember this time. She wasn't in charge back then, but she couldn't bring herself to pretend that she would not have done the same thing if she were in Blunt's shoes.

After all, Alex had saved millions of lives multiple times.

Faint awe accompanied every time she thought of it, but crude sadness was always the feeling that dominated others. In his last mission, Alex never came back.

Egypt was the one time too many. Alex had been used like a bait against Scorpia, but MI6 had been manipulated like rookies on this operation. This resulted into the death of Alex' caregiver and in the disappearing of him. The body of his doppelganger had been found, a bullet in the head. It was nearly symbolic: everything that held a link to Alex had been erased. It was like he had never existed: only a very few people could tell they had knew this boy, and how much the world owed him.

Tulip still had agents on the case, out of sheer determination. Recently, it evolved: faint leads had been found, and they hinted that Alex was somewhere out, doing only God knew what.

Lost in her musings, Tulip started when lights went off, bathing the room into thick darkness.

She quickly took a glance outside, and saw that a good part of the district was affected by the blackout as well. Then, power returned when the generator took over, and she let out the breath she was unconsciously holding. Her relief didn't last long: a sudden loud noise, along with the shake of the building happened, indicating an important explosion somewhere in near surroundings.

_An attack_, she thought, leaping on her feet while gathering hurriedly papers. She closed the two folders before placing them under her left arm.

Her phone rang, and in the middle of the first ring, a huge crack resounded near the window. Tulip felt her eyes widening when the entire pan seemed to drop slightly, like it was left ajar.

She put the phone against her ear.

"Please join us immediately on the extracting spot, Ma'am." The voice of the security head was calm, professional, but she could perceive a faint hint of tension underlying it.

"I'll be there in twenty seconds."

* * *

_Entry 122: Rewiring implementation has taken four months and thirteen days. Today, the __subject behaviour has followed every steps previously specified. Two safe months has been __decided before moving ahead in the protocol._

* * *

Dale ran, taking long strides before jumping smoothly over the low wall. He fell off the roof, and the wind screeched at him. He couldn't help the mad laugh that escaped him, while speed and feeling of sheer liberty invaded his blood. He could faintly see the ground of the back street rushing at him, and after few second of free fall, he tightened up his grip over the rope. He reached the ground almost leisurely, and took off the harness in one swift motion.

No one was here to see him reach the manhole, which he had opened slightly few hours prior. He pushed hard the cast iron disc, and jumped down. Pitch black prevailing in the sewer, he reached for his torch and flicked it on. Minuscule droplets saturated the atmosphere, and shimmered lazily in the ray of light. The air, filled with watery echoes, was somehow sensibly hotter than the outside. With a sweeping motion, he assessed his surrounding before taking a run.

He knew the way like the back of his hand. Having worked in these tunnels for weeks already, he reached the construction site in no time. Everything had been left as is by workers at the end of the day. Dale smiled: maybe he would take the time to cancel the order tomorrow. After all, there had been no true reason to do the modification on the ceiling and on the wall. Two months ago, he had sliced into the server of the Civil Engineering Service and had put a high priority task that had led to the heavy alteration of the sewer pathway.

Racket and noises had successfully covered his own activity. He finally reached the entry of a smaller tunnel, and headed towards its end. He gathered a bag concealed behind a stone, and took a mace firmly with his right hand before beating down the wall. It fell off almost immediately, having been weakened step by step by Dale during these days of work. The young man inwardly cheered, and went through easily after having flicked off his torch.

He was in another tunnel, which wasn't on any of current official maps. He crouched in the dark and pulled out an uniform off the bag. He removed his pants and sweater before dressing up quickly. Looking like his preys helped him to stir the pot and confuse his enemies. It was not a huge advantage, but everything was good to take when he expected to be largely outnumbered.

* * *

_Entry 143.a : The main flaw of the project has been already discussed, and remains being the __necessity of regular self-injections to keep the conditioning on hold. Sending the subject in too __long mission without supervision will involve a significant risk._

* * *

Tulip sent all the content of her desk in the huge shredder conveniently placed just next to it. She pressed the right combination, and the machine incinerated the whole stuff in few seconds. She grabbed her coat and the two folders she had been studying. She then reached swiftly the armoured door of her flat, pulled it open and made her way in the corridor. Four bulky men were waiting, line of shoulders stiff and jaw strained.

"Have you sent the decoy, Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Three cars will go out in a minute, and two others in three minutes."

She nodded curtly and walked hurriedly toward the lift door. "I expect a full report of the event. Headquarters need to be informed."

"Purple alert has been set off. A team will be awaiting us in the underground passage, but we need to hurry." Mr Holmes keyed swiftly his pass through the card reader, then did the same with hers. A bell ringed before the door opened, agonizingly slowly.

The cabin was not very large, and Tulip found herself uncomfortably pressed on the back while the four men stuffed in.

"I reckon that there has been a somewhat huge explosion," Tulip stated coldly. The sentence hung in the air, before Mr Holmes let finally a tiny breath out.

"Near the front door. Three dead, of whom one civilian. There are injured but I don't know how many."

The rest of the short trip down was spent in silence. Tulip was furrowing her brows, feeling anger building slowly. She didn't know who was foolish enough to dare to attack her, but she was resolute to find out.

The door finally reopened and they all went out, relieved. The darkness faced them, absolute despite the pitiful attempt of the lift light to fend them off. The door closed, and black engulfed them. Mr Holmes turned on a torch, and directed the ray on both sides of the tunnel. No one awaited them.

"Where's the security guard," asked Tulip.

"I told him to do some reconnaissance, he's surely not far."

While the words tried to be reassuring, she could perceive the uncertainty in his voice.

"We have to keep moving," said Mr Holmes while tugging her by her arm. He made a swift motion with his right hand, and the tallest agent took the lead, gun ready. They went over a first bend after few dozen of meters.

Her security head took his walkie-talkie and called: "Smith, where are you?"

Only static responded him. "Smith, do you copy? Over."

More static sounds, and then: "There's something wrong."

He batted an eyelash. "What do you mean?"

Tulip felt a cold wave wash over her. She knew this voice, these intonations and these clipped ways to form words. And they didn't belong to Timothy Smith.

"Identify yourself!" Apparently, Mr Holmes had finally reached at the same conclusion.

There was no answer, or at least not a voiced one. A gunshot resounded, loudly echoing between walls, but seemed to come from far into the tunnel. One of the security men collapsed suddenly.

"Cut off the light," shouted Holmes while sending Tulip on the ground. Then, security men retaliated and triggered their guns multiple times. The shower of bullets finally stopped, bringing a very welcomed relief to Tulip's ears.

"An ambush," Holmes whispered. "We need to retreat. Now!"

Tulip got swiftly on her feet and sprinted blindly back toward the lift, a hand running over the side wall. Her breaths were jerky, and her heart beat loudly.

The two remaining security men trailed off and continued to fire from time to time to cover her and Mr Holmes. However, one cry followed by an indistinct gargle taught her that whoever was prowling in the darkness was slowly gaining the upper hand. Holmes' grip tightened briefly around her arm before letting her go with a jerk. He turned on his torch before throwing it back, pausing to fight off their aggressors. She ran few last meters, trying to not take a glance over her shoulder when struggle sounds seemed to pursue her, and reached the lift. She fumbled with her pass, until that the fact she hadn't Holmes' one dawned in her mind.

Turning over, she was about to shout when a vice grip suddenly curled around her neck.

* * *

_Entry 159: Keeping the subject far from his previous ties remains a necessity. A fragile __equilibrium has been established, and can be threw off with a mere reminder: name, face, __location…_

* * *

Getting rid of Jones henchmen had been almost easy. While they had not bad reflexes, they had doomed themselves when they hadn't brought with them any night vision device. The blackout had been planned on for this fact, and Dale knew well that no one could get ready for everything. The secret was to play all moves to surprise the adversary. He had been lucky today.

He smiled, and flicked on his torch directly on the face of his target, who he was keeping solidly against the door.

"Well, Mrs Jones, I can't say you're an easy prey."

She widened her eyes despite the crude light, and whispered faintly a name he couldn't decipher.

"Boss wants a recorded execution. If you please remain still, I'll be kind and quick." His tone was almost bored while he rummaged in his bag for his camera.

"You're Vesper, right?" Jones voice was strangled, and she seemed to have trouble breathing.

"Quite right, Mrs Jones. No less indeed was to be expected from the head of MI6." He pulled out his device, and pressed on the record button.

"Why do you dye your hair?"

Dale paused, taken aback by the question. How did she knew that? He had kept his hair black as far back he could recall. After all, blond hair was too conspicuous, especially in China. He didn't like the idea that someone could describe him with one word.

"I'm not here to chitchat, so keep quiet."

"Maybe you should take a look at this folder, Alex. I'm sure you'll be glad to learn some of the information –" Jones wheezed at the end of the sentence when Dale grip tightened.

"My name's not Alex," he said flatly. A curious mixture of feeling arose suddenly in him: coldness, hollowness, and strange above all, sorrowfulness. Headache built up, and he felt the first symptom of withdrawal creeping up his back. Except that the next injection was not scheduled before the morning, and it had been years that this routine had sufficiently kept the pain at bay.

"Yes it is. You're Alex Rider, and we've lost you years ago in Egypt. I know you well, and you're worth better than being a mindless puppet." Her voice was sad, yet almost ironic.

"I'm... You're wrong." Dale found himself unable to gather his thoughts, which were now roaring like a tempest. A faint idea went through, fragile in the hurricane. _Maybe if I get rid of her, everything will be all right. _He raised his gun, pressed the end harshly on her forehead, and nearly pulled the trigger.

"Ian Rider was your uncle, Jack Starbright your housekeeper... Did that ring any bell?" Words were stronger, better defined, and seemed to rip through the chaos. Locks of fiery hair, laughing eyes, disappearing in a conflagration. _Don't wanna remember, it's forbidden, forbidden, forbidden, forbi__– _Dale shut tightly his eyes, before dropping on his knees. He put his throbbing head between his hands, gun completely discarded. He faintly heard rustles of silk when Jones crouched and slid an opened folder before his eyes.

A teenager was staring back at him. He couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Serious brown eyes, fair hair and a mouth set firmly in a determined line. It was his own face, which echoed endlessly behind the wall of pain, menacing to engulf him at any moment.

"Please, let me help you." The young man felt more than saw the hand reaching toward him. He slapped it away violently, before gathering clumsily the folder. Getting up swaying, he reached the edge of the pool of light. He needed to be elsewhere, to resort his feeling, to fight off the pain.

"Leave me alone," and then he faded into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to all of my reviewers, especially Apple in an ocean. This chapter is dedicated to you.

* * *

The room had an air of shadiness screaming about a disreputable hotel. Drawn curtains were exuding a strong aroma of cold tobacco, and corners were blurred by dust bunnies. Sheets, while not being of a sparkling white, were clean at least. Dale Rierx removed jacket, sweater and shoes before dropping heavily on the bed.

The journey back had been exhausting. Streets were crowded with the police and military forces, as well as journalists and onlookers; he sure had made a fine job into spreading chaos. He had strolled on over his hotel, keeping his gaze firmly locked on the ground, and trying to keep himself inconspicuous. He had feared that Jones would release his picture while he was still in danger of being recognized, in possession of a highly classified file.

All the way along, he had fought a lingering and vicious headache. He had finally reached the entrance of his hotel, utterly worn out. The encounter with the head of MI6 had had unexpected results, and he wasn't able currently to poise himself to analyse the situation. Pain was tracing deep scorching furrows in his head, and prevented him to think clearly.

The young man didn't thought that was the withdrawal syndrome yet, but rather a kind of phantom pain brought by the conflict taking place within him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. _Pain is here to not let me think. It's my jail._

Shaking his head, he discarded quickly these thoughts. Introspection was forbidden. He had learnt that a long time ago. He never touched at memories which belonged to the far past: they were locked away behind the wall of pain. He had always knew they were here, but had never thought it was worth the suffering to go there and dig in the mud. Until now, he had been fine with it so far.

And then, Tulip Jones had thrown him off balance with a mere name.

Months of planning... reduced to nothing. Dale frowned harshly and closed his eyes. This surely would hit a blow at his otherwise flawless reputation, but it would not be in vain. A curious tug, coming from the distant depth of his mind, urged him to learn more, despite his reluctance. Maybe it would change something in his life, even if he was content with the way he had led it until now. _Are you really?_

Taking a deep breath, he turned over, and spread out the folder he had took from Jones.

It was huge, and contained hundreds of pages. His face was displayed on several pictures, which seemed to have been taken in a relatively short time span. His headache was pounding, and the beat was giving rhythm to his reading. Deep echoes of forgotten memories reverberated in him; nothing defined, only nameless feelings and sensations were taking place lazily. Despite the pain, it was definitely interesting, and he continued to scan over the files, eyes catching sometimes a name, sometimes a face.

He spent a long time detailing the features of a somewhat cute redhead with tangled hair, passing a light finger over the curve of her cheek, and idly wondering why he felt his throat constricting like that.

And then, he leafed again, and his eyes fell on the tiny black square stuck between two pages.

A tracker.

Fucking bloody hell.

* * *

Tulip entered in the control room, situated in the main building of the SIS. William Dearly, her personal assistant, was on her heels. An entire team was currently working on various devices, and a huge screen was displaying the map of London, along with few live video images of a shady street of Brixton. A frenzied activity was buzzing in the atmosphere.

"Report."

A tall man, with a hawk profile, was standing with hands casually clasped behind his back. He turned slightly in her direction, without taking his eyes away from the map.

"Your tracker hadn't moved for nearly twenty minutes. SAS units are currently dispatching themselves around the hotel. Air units are on their way, and will be operational in two minutes."

"Thank you, Quentin. Remember, your utmost priority is to bring in the target alive." Her words were soft, yet clipped, allowing no contradiction.

Quentin Saunders nodded. "Arrangements have been made along these lines."

"Good." She popped a peppermint in her mouth, and seated herself in a deep, comfortable chair on the back of the room. "Let's the show begin," she added with a wry smile.

* * *

Dale jumped on his bare feet, and put hurriedly his shoes on, fumbling with the lacing. He slipped on his leather jacket and grabbed his backpack before swinging open the door. He could now hear the barely audible rumble of a helicopter approaching. He bolted in the dimly lit hallway and ran in the opposite direction from the main stairs. Removing a gun from his bag, he put it between his waistband and his back, before throwing the rucksack away.

Approaching rapidly the end of the corridor, he used his momentum to power the kick that slammed down the wooden door of the box room. The ruckus seemed to have drawn unwanted attention, because Dale heard faint hurried words coming from the stairs. He reached the small dirty window above his head, opened it up, and hauled himself through it in one fluid motion.

Studying assiduously the blueprints of any location he planned to use as his quarters was a basic prerequisite. That wasn't the first time he was forced to leave a place hastily, but it was certainly new for him to have something as resourceful as the MI6 hot on his trail. He hoped the escape route he had noticed before would be still passable.

The strong blow of the nightly wind felt like a slap after the quiet warmness of his hotel room. Crouching outside, on a thin cornice situated roughly a dozens of meters from the ground; he cast a rapid glance to evaluate the distance to the wall opposite. It was a narrow back alley enshrouded with shadows. Taking a look below, he could see faint movements, too fast and too well organized to belong to someone simply passing by. He cursed under his breath. He would need not only his skills and experience, but a lot of luck as well to get out of this mess.

Leaping forward, he caught as silently as he could the edge of the nearest window. He then grasped the gutter and progressed quickly toward the upper moulding. Hands firmly positioned, he yanked his body on it.

"He's here!" The cry was coming from the window he had used to get out. Shots were fired. Dale ducked his head instinctively and sprinted toward the corner. Instead of the sharp, neat noise of bullets burying themselves in the wall, there were eerie sounds of shattering glass.

_Tranquillizer guns._

Adrenalin pumping in his blood, headache totally forgotten, Dale turned sharply over the corner and jumped few meters below toward the roof of the next building. He landed with a roll, followed by a fluid pull-up that allowed him to resume his run without loss of momentum. He vaulted obstacles scattered across his path, using his hands as often as he could to skip pipes and low wall.

Never slowing, rushing through the night several meters above the ground, he let the sheer feeling of freedom intertwining itself with the excitation caused by the chase. His body took the control, muscles and sense of balance leading him further and further, liberating him from cumbersome thoughts.

When he almost believed he had gained a comfortable head start on his enemies, a blinding light suddenly swept over the roof, to then lock itself on him. Cursing again while raising his hands to protect his face, Dale crashed into a vent before crouching in its deep shadow.

Breathing heavily, he risked a rapid glance over it. A helicopter was hovering nearby, sending dusts and slivers of autumn leaf flying into his eyes. The searchlight didn't allow him to see anything in the aircraft, but he was fairly certain that sharpshooters were currently trying to lock their rifle on him.

Scanning the area, he analysed the situation. Maybe if he managed to stay in blind spots while remaining on motion... his thought stopped abruptly when he spotted a second helicopter approaching.

Goddammit.

* * *

"Target is on motion, Sir. He seems to have left the tracker behind."

Quentin Saunders nodded. "Don't lose him. I want to know his position at every second."

"He left the surrounded hotel through the north side, and he's currently climbing the next building." The liaison officer paused as he listened something said in his earpiece. "He's going fast, he's already on another roof."

"Deploy air units, and I want our quickest men after him. Try to herd him where we want him." The tone of Saunders was filled with authority.

"Understood."

Tulip taped lightly the armrest with her short nails, while keeping her chin in her palm. So far, everything went according to plan. She let out a light puff of breath, almost a sigh. She was on edge. Deeply, she was convinced that the hand of fate had played a role. Seeing Alex again, so many years after his disappearance in that underground passage, metamorphosed in someone entirely new and almost unrecognizable couldn't be entirely the result of mere chance. She had been able to confirm the identity he went by now, namely Vesper, a hit man who had a fearsome reputation. The preliminary inquiry had demonstrated that he had planned all the prior events alone, and had been close to succeed.

Far too close.

Six months ago, the SIS had obtained anonymous tips about an obscure protocol named Mnemos, involving torture and brainwashing. It had made little sense at the time.

Now, she couldn't help the shiver that ran down her spine. Thankfully, she had been able to connect the dots quickly, and evoking few key names in front of Alex had saved her life. These thoughts reminded her that even if they were able to bring in Alex alive, the game was far from being won. She leaned toward her personal assistant.

"William, could you please ensure that the room where he has stayed is thoroughly searched. Smithers and the science department will need rapidly a sample of the chemical substance to learn how to counteract it."

"I'm on it, Mrs Jones."

* * *

Men were hurtling down along ropes from the second helicopter. Tensing, Dale leapt over the vent and bolted toward the edge of the roof. He felt something pass quickly just next his ear before losing itself in the darkness. Two other close whistles confirmed him that he was at least on the line of fire of three snipers. He dived forward, put his hands on the ledge and jumped into the emptiness. In the fall, he twisted to face the wall, and tried to slow his descent as best as he could. Grabbing at any excrescence, ripping his hands skin open and trying to not spin, he finally managed to grasp the railing of a thin balcony. He let out a muffled cry when his right shoulder nearly dislocated.

Clenching his jaw, he glanced below before transferring his grip on the balcony floor. The young man swung his body and somersaulted, the trajectory of his jump leading him to land smoothly on a breezeway. He then reached with agility the ground of the street. It was well-groomed and nicely tree-lined, and few pedestrians were strolling down leisurely, surely on the path of coming back to home.

Dale thought rapidly about taking an hostage, but he discarded quickly the idea. He needed to move fast. However, he could use people as temporary shield, and for that he needed to reach a more populated area. _Night club, there's one close by._ Trying to stay under the patchy protection of the branches, which were swaying back and forth under the furious wind caused by the two helicopters, he ran toward a small alley, obstructed by wheelie bins and mounds of crates. He slowed to catch his breath, but his break was cut short by the sudden noises of determined footfalls behind him.

"Freeze!" An entire unit of SAS men was running toward the lane as they aimed at him.

Dale swiftly pulled out his gun and fired in his back blindly, while sprinting forward, dodging tranquiliser darts and obstacles. According to the sounds following him, the men were quick and trained to move rapidly through urban environment. He would have trouble to shake them off.

Gathering swiftly a dislodged tile laying on his way, he passed a bin before stopping suddenly out of sight and flattened his back against the wall, taking advantage of the darkness. He threw the tile forward, hoping the noise would lead his pursuers to believe he had continued to move.

An almost desperate feeling pooled at the back of his mind, along the pain and the exhaustion. Closing briefly his eyes, he gathered himself and forced his tired muscles to relax.

One, two soldiers went over his location. He raised his gun, and aimed for a split second. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, someone crashed into him, sending his head bang against the brick wall. Dizziness washed over him, and he felt the weapon drop off his limp fingers. Fighting the daze, he dodged the fist aimed at his face and retaliated with simultaneous hits with his knee and his elbow. The latter was blocked but his knee connected, causing the man to suddenly double over. Dale straightened as he sent a powerful uppercut at the military man head, effectively knocking him out cold.

The victory turned out to be a hollow one when a dart buried itself in his thigh. Dale removed it immediately, but a biting frost was already diffusing rapidly in his limb, which menaced to give out at any moment. He searched for his gun, but it was apparently stuck under a heavy unconscious man. Dale leaned on the wall before sliding to the ground, breathing deeply, trying to slow his heart. Almost closing his eyes, and managing to appear even weaker than he felt, he waited few seconds for the two men to reach him. He slid his left hand under his pants leg and grabbed the handle of one of his knives.

One of them loomed over and grabbed his right hand. Dale suddenly sprang; blade unsheathed, and struck the weapon in the shoulder of his opponent. Grunting, the soldier tried to shake him off with a head butt. Dale dodged partially, and received the hit on his ear.

He let out a loud curse. He was rapidly overwhelmed, having lost the use of his leg. Suddenly stopping to oppose any resistance, Dale dropped and used the loss of balance to bring the soldier above him while keeping his back against the ground. He pushed his opponent violently with his foot to throw him over, and used his sudden freedom to snatch his other knife concealed under his shirt.

A second dart went puncturing his skin, but this time just under his collarbone. The lightheadness intensified immediately after, sending the environment spin wildly. He tried to rise, slowly, carefully, but ended crashing back against the ground. His limbs seemed to weight far more than usual. Shadows crept at the edge of his vision, slowly darkening the world.

* * *

Jackal let out a breath, gun still aimed at the unmoving target. "Are you okay?" Worry was faintly colouring his voice, and he crouched next to his unconscious partner to check his vitals.

"That was a tough one." Snake grimaced, before carefully palpating his shoulder wound. It was not deep and the blow had been absorbed by his flak jacket. He pulled a plastic handcuff out of his military jacket, turned over the target's body with a small grunt and tied solidly his hands behind his back. "How's Wolf?" He asked, while putting a black sack around the head of the young man.

"Pulse is strong." Jackal lifted up an eyelid and checked the light response. "No mydriasis." He nodded to himself before pulling out his radio. "HQ, this is K Unit. Target has been apprehended."

* * *

After profound darkness, a dim light seemed to bath his mind. His senses were slowly returning. He could perceive the distant noise of computers functioning, as well as indistinct voices speaking about something. He tried to focus, to snatch snippets of information, and ended to frown mentally at the headache that clawed ruthlessly at his brain.

In spite of his will, he must had let out that he was awake, because someone suddenly leaned over him to brush his forehead. The hand was cool, light, and oddly comforting.

"Alex Rider, my young friend. I'm truly glad that you decided to finally come back to us." The voice had a timbre of a cello, and was distinctively male.

Dale opened his eyes. A light-brown haired man, sparks of humour inhabiting his blue eyes, was smiling at him. He was maybe in his late thirties, and seemed to be wiry under his blinding Hawaiian shirt.

Dale frowned and answered dryly. "I don't remember having decided anything."

"Quite wrong, Alex. Mrs Jones and I have discussed your case these last few hours. She is convinced that you have indeed taken the decision by yourself. I'm leaning to believe it, too."

The young man blinked, and groaned when the pain flooded his mind. "My name's not Alex," he muttered darkly. "Who are you?"

"I'm Derek Smithers, engineer, among other things I do." His smile seemed genuine. "We've worked together in the past."

Dale tried to raise his hand to rub his temple, and found out he couldn't move a limb. "If you know me, why I'm tied like this?"

"Ah, but before envisioning any full and mutual trust, we have to break your conditioning, young man." Smithers' lips dropped into a sad line. "I'm afraid that you'll have to suffer quite a bit for that." He turned over and went to a near lab bench to snatch something. Coming back, Smithers waved a tiny vial filled with an amber coloured liquid. Dale felt his mouth get dry.

"Give it to me." His tone sounded very harsh, even at his own ears. He couldn't see anything aside the drug, and it was like a switch had been turned on: his overall uneasiness had morphed into aching and yearning. Hours, even an entire day, had surely passed since his failed flight. Smithers shook his head apologetically.

"To break the hold, you have to giving it up. We'll help you during the withdrawal, but if I have to believe what I read about..." He gestured vaguely. "...all you've been through, it will not be easy."

Dale clenched tightly his fists, anger rising rapidly. "You can't keep me strapped here."

Smithers checked the intravenous drip connected to the young man arm, before sending him a somewhat dismal glance. "Don't worry; you'll not be alone during your ordeal."

Deeply, Dale knew it was useless to threaten the man or, worse, beg him. That fact didn't stop him to rant against him for hours. At least, it gave him a let-out to his need. Slowly, but surely, the crave intensified.

It was raging in him now, scattering his thoughts in every direction. The wall of pain, having menaced him all his life, would soon fell over him to rip his soul into shreds. Awful memories, too atrocious to be remembered, were lurking, waiting for the right moment to swamp him under their horrible embrace.

Though, a small candle light was fighting the storm, stubborn against the furious winds. Dale tried to focus on it: he couldn't let it be blown out. He knew deeply that this tiny flame was his core, his identity.

Feeble yet obstinate, fragile yet defiant: if he could protect it, it would be easier for him to face the pain.

If he could hold long enough, maybe the dim light would turn into a blazing dawn.

* * *

"How many hours?"

"Fourteen. And it keeps going worse and worse."

"God. I hate this."

Grim lines were creasing Derek's features. "He's not reacting to any of our stimuli now. I hope we have taken the right decision, Mrs Jones. Maybe we could have better results with a softer and slower method."

"You have discussed about this thoroughly with experts, Derek." She patted him on the shoulder. "Now is not the time to have regrets." They were standing next to each other in front of a window, thankfully soundproof. Alex were screaming behind it, still solidly tied to his bed. He was babbling incoherent words between his cries.

Derek sighed. "I have to return to his side."

Mrs Jones simply nodded, keeping her eyes locked to the restless, agitated young man.

* * *

"_Dr Three's dead."_

_Dale was staring at the ceiling, slumped in his chair. "What a loss, I'll thoroughly mourn him for... let's see... two seconds."_

_He heard the soft rustling of shifting cloth, and Li Feng asked: "Do you know what happened to him?"_

_Dale let a slow smirk grow on his features. _

"_Not the faintest idea," he lied._

.

.

.

"_They surrendered."_

"_What? Already?"_

"_They heard you were coming."_

"_You're kidding, right?"_

"_I wish I were. Honestly, Vesper, working with you spoil all the fun."_

.

.

.

_Dale slipped the piano string around the neck of his target with deft, assured hands. His prey died shortly after, almost without a sound. The young man then poured gasoline all over the place, and set the flat aflame. All traces vanished in the raging, glorious blaze._

.

.

.

"_You're good with firearms. But your training is far from being over. Let's see how you'll fare with close range weapons. Bring me this katana over there, I'll show you the true path of an accomplished warrior."_

_._

_._

_._

_The young man stepped in the room. For the first time of his life, only a faint ache was coursing through his body. He smiled, content, and sat on the chair facing the very small Chinese man._

_The man leaned over, eyeing him critically._

"_How are you feeling?"_

"_I'm fine."_

"_Who are you?"_

"_My name's Dale Rierx." There had not been the slightest of hesitation._

_The Chinese man smiled, creasing oddly his waxen face._

"_Good. I'm pleased to meet you, Dale. You have a lot to learn."_

_._

_._

_._

"_Who are you?"_

"_Alex... Alex Rider." Electricity set aflame every nerve. Alex hadn't the force to scream. He hadn't even the force to think. He didn't know since when and why he was here, why he was suffering, why he was asked this question over and over._

_Idly, he was wondering if it was the good answer. Those times when he had not known how to respond, pain hadn't immediately followed._

_Maybe that wasn't his name after all._

"_Who are you?"_

"_I... I don't know..." The teenager shook slightly his head, trying unsuccessfully to clear his thoughts. "Do you know who I am?"_

_A chilling smile, a vicious gleam in these dark eyes._

"_You're like wet clay, boy. Your identity needs to be reshaped, and fortunately, clay is malleable. I'll just need to make a ball of it before reshaping it at my convenience. And in the same fashion, I just need the letters of your previous name to make you a new one. I am your creator, and you owe me everything, even your name." The smile grew wider. "You are Dale Rierx, and you are my perfect, beautiful tool."_

* * *

_In his mind, his name shattered, falling in a million pieces. Oddly, slivers fell in a curious shape, and seemed to reorganize themselves, forming ancient and shimmering paths. _


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks again to all of my reviewers :)

* * *

His breathing seemed to follow the rhythm of calm waves on the shore, dragging innumerable grains of sand back and forth, in a perpetual motion for what seemed to be an endless time.

Then, slowly, the sea morphed into a forest lake, isolated from any disturbance aside of an occasional breeze. The crystal water was mirroring the sky, and intense blue was occulting vertiginous depths.

Quietness and peace, exuding from the smooth, uncorrupted state of his mind.

A simple echo of what could have been sent suddenly a ripple over the surface of the slumbering water.

Alex opened his eyes.

He was laying on a soft bed, and patches of sunlight pouring through a large window were playing on his face. Silence, aside of his own breath, seemed to be absolute. He was alone in the deserted room.

The young man didn't want to move. He felt at peace here, and he knew that any movement would shatter his bubble of quietness. For long minutes, he was contented to only feel the weight of his limbs, the slow beat of his heart and the soft caress of a wild strand of hair on his cheek.

He was focused only on his feelings, and it prevented him to think.

Eventually, he tried to turn slightly his head, and was immediately crushed by an intense soreness. His muscles were cramped, like they were made only of rust. He closed briefly his eyes, grimacing, and concentrated on raising his right arm.

The move sent ripples of ache through his entire body, and the mere act to keep his limb up was exhausting. Curiosity arose, however, when he saw bandages wrapped around it, from the fingertips to the elbow.

_What happened to me? _The question brushed lightly against the bubble of peace. _Right, I was chased, they caught me._ The thought annoyed him mildly before disappearing in the far back of his mind.

Letting down his arm, Alex breathed deeply, and stared at the window. Sunlight was attracting his gaze, moving along the leaves and branches of a tree outside, and he lost himself in a mesmerized contemplation.

The light became eventually more and more golden while the patches reached slowly the upper part of the wall, and Alex was still buried deeply in his reverie.

Darkness finally came, and with it, murmurs and whispers.

_I'll come and get you. I promise. _These had been Jack's last words to him. Alex had said good luck afterward, just before they were separated.

This event had set the true beginning of the descent into the abyss. Joy and hope had died with her this day.

Julius had killed her right before his eyes, while he had been crying and begging for her life, for the sick pleasure of inflicting him pain. The hollow satisfaction of taking deliberately Julius' life hadn't relieved any of the grief he had felt, and he hadn't had the time for proper mourning afterward.

Hell had followed, and had eaten him alive.

Alex took a slightly shuddered breath. Emotions and feelings were dull, and Alex felt curiously detached, like they were belonging to another person. He turned his head toward the left side of the room. The ache was thankfully attenuated and allowed movements without him wincing at every gesture. The IV drip was still joined to his arm. He took the base of the needle and removed it, fumbling slightly with his numb fingers.

The second he let the needle go, the door swivelled open, and Derek Smithers stepped into the room.

Alex watched the man enter, withholding his flinch of annoyance. Conflicted memories emerged, those of the events prior mixed with ancient ones, where Smithers had felt like his sole ally in the MI6.

"Ah, dear boy, you're finally awake!"

The young man didn't respond immediately and took a few seconds to study his visitor. Deep shadows were hanging under his eyes. Behind the cheerfulness of his greetings, Alex had perceived exhaustion dulling his voice.

Finally, he stirred and cleared his throat. "I'm sure you've known since the second I opened my eyes."

Smithers shot him a slight nervous smile. "How're you feeling?"

"Sore." Alex raised an eyebrow. "Did you expect anything else?"

The enginneer's smile widened, becoming more genuine. "I don't know, maybe. These previous hours have been rough for you. I'm glad that you seem coherent enough though, I was looking for someone to share my dinner time. I hate eating alone."

And like that, Smither dropped a box on the small table placed just under the window and dragged a chair next to it. Seating himself, he unwrapped a sandwich and opened up a drink bottle.

"Make yourself at home," said Alex dryly, feeling slightly nauseated by the sight of food.

"Thanks." Smithers bit a huge mouthful and took his time to masticate it. "So, what do you remember about your past?" His eyes were wandering over a vague area between the floor and the wall. While casualness was filling his voice, the line of his shoulders remained tense. Alex stared at him, and Smithers fidgeted.

"You know, you suck at interrogating people."

A scandalized look crossed Smither's features. "Hey, I'm not a bloody detective. Not my fault if Jones keeps saying that I'm the only one here likely able to make you feel at ease!"

Alex smiled slightly and stayed silent. The older man resumed his dinner, frowning mildly at him. Few minutes passed by, and uneasiness seemed to grow in Smithers, according to the multiple shifts in his position.

"What have you done of your fat suit?" asked casually Alex, knowing perfectly that the engineer wanted to decipher if he remembered his past or not.

Sudden relief, mixed oddly with what seemed to be caution, washed through Smithers' features. "I never got it back, you know... after Egypt."

Alex nodded and closed his eyes, focusing on the present. Memories were hazy, yet easily reachable; but somehow, he didn't want to fully face them at this very moment. He knew instinctively that it would take time to sort his thoughts and rebuild himself. Right now, he wasn't even sure how to name himself. The only thing he knew clearly was that he didn't want to be observed during the process.

Exhaustion crashed suddenly on him, leaving him dizzy and groggy.

"I'm tired. Please, leave me alone." His voice sounded genuinely drained.

Smithers hesitated before answering: "Okay, Alex. Let me know if you need anything." Eyes still closed, Alex heard the older man standing up and gathering his things, before making his way toward the exit.

"I'll speak to Jones tomorrow," said Alex after the door had swung shut. Someone surely had heard him through the multiple bugs wiring the room.

* * *

Tulip entered in the room the next morning. Alex was sitting in a armchair situated near the armoured window, gaze lost outside. He was casually dressed with jeans and a simple white tee, accentuating his overall look of youth. Bandages still wrapped around his arms, he seemed almost fragile, with the faint lost expression lingering on his face.

This was an entirely different man than the dangerous one who had attacked her almost three days prior.

Alex let his empty eyes wandering toward her. With an almost imperceptible nod, he acknowledged her presence.

"Mrs Jones." He blinked, and seemed to make a conscious effort to focus his gaze on her. "I don't know if I have to thank you or..." He shrugged and didn't bother to finish his sentence. Tulip knew perfectly what he hadn't said, and dismissed it without a further thought.

"I'm glad you're better. We were worried about you." She sat on a chair close to the door, and crossed her legs. "And you need to know that I'm also glad that you have returned to us."

Alex eyes hardened, and his expression turned emotionless. His gaze didn't waver, and he stared at her silently for a long minute.

Tulip felt slightly unnerved by this cold, calculating gaze.

She eventually sighed. "Believe it or not, but I'm sincerely concerned by your well-"

"What do you want from me, Jones?" cut Alex; tone wary and defiant.

She tensed. She would have liked to be able to answer that they wanted nothing from him, save his welfare. Sadly, that was not the case, and they needed him. She let out another sigh that almost sounded defeated in her own ears.

"We'll speak about that in a moment. First off, I wanted to know if you have fully understood what you have been through."

"You speak about the fact that I've been brainwashed and used like a puppet for four or five years? Actually, I don't precisely remember when I started to be fully operational for them."

His face was perfectly collected, and he had stated the awful truth with an even voice. Jones felt a shiver run across her back.

"And how do you feel about that?"

"The only thing I know is that I don't want to talk about that. Not now and not with you."

She felt her knuckles tightening. "As you wish" She got up on her feet, and started to walk around, popping a peppermint in her mouth.

"You're in possession of precious information, Alex. My superiors and I would be very interested to hear what you can reveal about SAN." Tulip paused and turned, evaluating her interlocutor. He was doing a good job at keeping up an indifferent face.

"Why would I do that?" Was that genuine wonder she had perceived in his tone?

"Why would you want to protect them? You're not on their side anymore."

He shrugged, before smiling and leaning on his elbow, his chin in his hand "I don't know, maybe the only thing I want right now is to shoot myself and die?"

Tulip couldn't help to think that it was probably close to the truth, although he was probably stating this to mess up with her.

"You're not serious."

"Perhaps, but you can't be sure of that."

She felt a migraine building behind his tired eyes. "I won't force you to cooperate, Alex. You're free to do what you want to do. I'm not Blunt, and I'll never be like him. I have my own methods, my own morals."

"I don't believe you. All these years, you let Blunt use me like a tool. You're as guilty as him on what happened to me in the end."

As much as she hated to hear him said that, she knew he was saying the truth, and it echoed with what she had told to herself all these years after his disappearance.

"I've prepared new papers for you, even if I know you're resourceful on this area. You're capable of taking care of yourself, I hope. You have to keep in mind, however, that if you resume your hit man activity, we will not be as lenient as today. My influence has limits."

She felt, more than really saw, the shift in Alex's demeanour. He was still staring at her, but somehow, the atmosphere around them felt like less chilling, less tense.

Alex rubbed his chin, before playing with a lock of dark hair, lost in thoughts. Tulip remained still, acknowledging his need to think about what she had just said.

"I want to be there." he said finally, almost idly.

Tulip raised an eyebrow "Where?"

"At SAN headquarters, when you'll send units to wipe them all out." He let a smile curl on his lips, uncovering white, predatory teeth "I want them to pay." He clenched tightly his right fist around the armrest, and added with a whisper: "And I'll be ruthless. Like they were toward me."

* * *

Jones and Smithers were cautious around him, like they believed he would shatter at a mere shock. Those two were the only ones to talk to him, and it was fine by him. Alex didn't know what to think about the whole affair. He felt curiously detached, and it was like his two lives beared no importance to him. He regularly found himself lost in the contemplation of something for long minutes, even hours sometimes, mind totally blank. He was wallowing into passiveness.

Smithers had told him it was a way to cope, and was thinking that he had not fully gone through the repercussions.

Alex had shrugged at that, not really afraid about what the future was reserving for him. In fact, future felt like a meaningless concept, too abstract to allow him to grasp its significance. Being unable to tie himself somewhere in the past, it was impossible for him to project himself forward.

He was waiting for only one thing, and it was the operation currently planned by Jones about SAN with the information he had provided. She had promised to let him come, and he had decided to trust her on this.

He was feeling physically better, but somehow, he knew that he was not strong enough to deal with the full consequences and the crude reality.

He needed something to focus his thoughts on to distract himself. He wasn't allowed somewhere else than Smithers' lab in the MI6 headquarters. Jones had said that very few people knew about his presence here, and even less that he was a very famous hit man, hunted by every secret service all around the world.

However, he was not a prisoner, and Jones seemed to want of making a point of that.

"_You can go outside, if you want. Maybe you wish to go see some of the places you used to know before."_

He didn't know if he truly _wished_, but that had sounded like something to do. At least, less dull and boring than watching over the Smithers' shoulder while he was working on a new spy device.

* * *

Alex breathed deeply, and filled his lungs with the cold air of November. Sunny weather had followed a rainy morning, and everything was shimmering into the late afternoon light. Streets were packed with shoppers and amblers. He felt oddly light and naked, without his usual arsenal, but forced himself to not think about how he was currently vulnerable.

He knew he was shadowed by agents. Jones had not made a secret of it, and he was able to fully grasp the logic behind it. Still, he didn't like the idea of being watched. It was against his most basic survival instincts. Maybe he could deliberately lose them for few hours. He was sure Jones would be understanding, especially when he knew there was a tracker somewhere in the clothes they had gave him, without even considering the mobile phone Smithers had put in his pocket. All in all, Jones seemed to be an almost fine person to interact with, now that Blunt had been removed from the vicinity. Jones had told him he was busy to circumnavigating around the world on board of a sailing boat. Alex could almost picturing in his mind the always stone-faced Blunt trying to face waves and sea sprays during storms, without cracking the faintest expression of annoyance. He shrugged. Maybe with a tiny bit of luck, something would finally go wrong for him.

Alex strolled toward the metro entrance. It was remarkably easy to lose someone when you pretended to jump at the last moment into the tube in a crowded station.

* * *

Alex found himself staring at the house where he had grown up, with Ian and Jack. Crisp wind was blowing around rusty-coloured leaves, and the sun disappeared again behind a charcoal cloud.

He shivered. Burying his hands deep in his jacket pockets, he raised his eyes and looked at the window of his former room. The glass was reflecting the stormy sky, and it was impossible for him to distinguish anything behind it. The house seemed to be empty, in these late hours of the afternoon. Yet, Alex could make out the distinctive shape of a swing in the back garden, along with a few outdoor toys. An impression of life exuded from it, only suspended for the time span of the day, when everyone was someplace else, maybe at work, maybe at school.

He briefly wondered what they had done to his things, and promised himself to ask to Jones about it. This life seemed to be very distant, far more than the six years that had passed by.

"Are you related to the Foster's family?" asked an aged, quavering voice.

He dropped his eyes, and met the slightly unfocused gaze of Mrs Finch. Her petite frame seemed to have shrunk over the time, and she was now huddled up in her huge dark coat. An elegant yet faded hat was precariously settled over her neatly combed hair.

Back then, Alex had helped her couple of time, to take out the trash and to fix a temperamental TV reception.

"Nope, I used to live in the neighbourhood."

"Oh, that's why you seem familiar to me." She muttered something indistinct, before resuming her walk, a flowery shopping trolley in her trail. "Don't worry; it's not in my habits to approach handsome young men in the street usually. You seem a bit lost, though." She stopped, having bypassed him, and turned again to face him. "Are you related to the Foster's family?"

Alex shook his head in denial, bemused.

It was strange like the seemingly most fragile things were sometimes those which faced the life and its reefs without changing. Alex had always known this old woman with memory troubles. One would had easily thought that she would not live for a long time, and yet she was still here, remaining the same, true to herself.

He watched her walking slowly away, coat billowing in the wind, sometimes reaching with a frail hand to steady her hat.

* * *

Comparatively, Brookland Comprehensive School vicinities were a lot livelier. Teenagers were slowly getting out of the building, finally set free for the day. Laughing and talking loudly in delight, they were enjoying the time spent together, far from parents and boring adults. Having only mundane preoccupations like grades, love life, what to do during the week-end and hobbies; they were literarily radiating hope and faith in the future.

Alex couldn't remember what had been his set of mind back then. True, before Ian's death, he was oblivious of the darker realities of the world, but he had never been a naive one. His uncle had drilled in him the necessity of overanalyse everything.

Motivations, acts, gestures - _everything_.

Yet, he believed he had had good times, even after the beginning of the whole spy mess, until Egypt.

Leant against the bark of a huge plane tree, he detailed faces. He knew that every of his classmates had moved on and settled in life, but he couldn't help to see sometimes features and expression to rely at someone he had knew. This one had the same nose of Mike Cook, the onetime bully he had punched out of this habit; this one had the same gait of Colin, his fellow football teammate, and this one laughed like Tom.

A group of teenage girls giggled and whispered between themselves when they passed by him, while throwing him glances. One of them was actually smoking, and a whiff of tobacco smell hit him

Alex raised the collar of his jacket, and felt suddenly the need to fill his lungs with toxic fumes, too. That was ridiculous, really. He had never smoked in his life, but somehow, his body seemed to crave for any kind of drug.

He frowned harshly.

_I need a drink._

* * *

The pub wasn't packed, and this was odd in itself at this time of the day. The evening light had trouble to pour through windows that hadn't see a duster in ages. At least, it was warm. Quiet whispers of conversation were filling the atmosphere, along with occasional bursting noises coming from the TV hanging from the ceiling.

Evaluating his surroundings, Alex spotted a place not too bad positioned, not far from exits and sufficiently distant from other tables.

Settling comfortably, he ordered a beer. Leaning in his chair, he let his shoulders relax. Walking along these familiar places, while reminiscing had kind of helped him. Yet, he felt still emotionally anesthetized. The bubble of quietness was still here, enfolding him into a false sense of peace. Outside world was bleak, like he was merely a spectator, like he was able to shut off the show at every moment.

Irritation faintly stirred in him. The emotion was dull and blunt like everything else.

He shrugged, and decided to focus on things less annoying than his feelings. The drink was pleasantly refreshing. He tasted the bitter flavour, and lost himself in the savouring.

He wasn't too keen about go out in the cold and walk, since the night had come and chased away the day. He planned to call and ask for someone to pick him up, but not right now.

Long minutes morphed into a full hour, and two more pints were emptied. His mind was pleasantly fuzzy and alcohol was helping him to relax his still sore muscles.

He was relishing his mild heady state, when a sudden commotion caught his attention.

A group of men, leaning at the counter, were speaking loudly. They had arrived only a few minutes prior, and were already disrupting the general mood. Somehow, Alex could feel the tension that now filled the air. An underlying gleam of fear was shining in the eyes of the bartender, who seemed to do his best to keep neutral features. Other patrons had made room for them, and were looking everywhere but in their direction.

They were five, speaking about a football match scheduled apparently for tonight. They weren't speaking about the play, however; but instead where they would begin to fight, an exited and primal need shaping the overall tone of their conversation.

_Hooligans._

Alex felt his eyes drawn to them, and he found himself unable to look away. He was fascinated by the restrained violence emanating from them. Somehow, in a very strange manner, every colour dulled and faded in the room, along voices and sounds. It was like he was watching an ancient film, only in shades of grey.

Anticipation released suddenly adrenaline in his blood system, dissipating any remaining vapour of liquor. Everything had acquired a sudden sharpened edge.

He pulled out his mobile phone and acted like he was answering a call. "Yep?... Sure, I'll be there, don't wanna miss that..." And, he added a lot more loudly: "We'll make sure to show how these Chelsea supporters are all pathetic weaklings. They'll run back to their mum and cry how Millwall has wiped the floor with them... Yeah, see you soon." He grinned widely and put back his phone in his inner pocket.

A deafening silence had fell over the room. Everyone was staring at him like he had grown a second head. The five hooligans remained utterly still for a second, before starting to make their way towards him. They were grinning at each other's, seemingly enjoying the prospect to pick on an easy, suicidal target this early into the evening.

Alex saw that some people chose this moment to pay for their drink and leave the bar. The barman vanished away in the kitchen, surely to call the police. There would be at least few minutes before someone would dare to mix up in the altercation.

The hooligans were now surrounding him. He was still leaning comfortably in his chair, legs crossed, back turned against the wall.

"You wanna die?" A bulky man in his mid-thirties, with fists almost as large as his biceps and blue tee stretched over muscles, gripped Alex's shirt to drag him brusquely on his feet. Alex raised his hand on each side of his head, in a mockery of appeasing gesture. "Please, gentlemen, we can discuss about this outside if you want, like the civilized men you obviously are."

"You're nothing, you don't tell us what to do. And if I want to beat you here, I'll beat you here."

At least, Alex had tried to avoid troubles for the owner of the bar, although unconvincingly. But he wasn't really in the mood to care about something else than the sharp crave of violence.

He wanted blood, and he wanted it now.

Pursing his lips, he practically snarled: "So show me what you've got, motherfucker."

The punch hit him in the jaw, and sent him sprawling roughly against the wall. Faint cries erupted across the room.

Raising, he wiped the side of his index finger along his inferior lip and saw the deep crimson of a smear of blood on it. "That wasn't very kind of you."

"You haven't seen anything yet!"

His opponent swung his fist one more time. Alex crouched at the last second, dodging the punch which unbalanced the man as a result. Alex used this opportunity to hook his foot at his opponent ankle at the exact moment he was trying to regain his feet, and yanked hard. The bulky man fall forward, and found in his face way the knee Alex had conveniently placed here.

The hooligan collapsed, knocked out in less than three seconds.

The four others stared at him in disbelief before anger flushed their face, and tried to seize him all at the same time. Alex swiftly leaped out of their way, jumping across a table, before bending it backward and sending the piece of furniture in their way. Two of them crashed on the floor and found themselves entangled between a fallen stool and the legs of the table.

The two remaining opponents pounced on Alex, who welcomed one of them with a very accurate round kick that landed on his temple. The young man then stepped forward and met the other, invading his guard and seizing him in a head lock that allowed Alex to kneeing his stomach brutally, before hitting deftly the nape of his neck with the elbow.

Having got rid of three opponents already, Alex turned toward the fallen table and took it off violently. Fight and battle were singing in his body, giving to the world a vivid quality. It was a very stark contrast compared to the muffled, stifled state of mind he had been experienced since his awakening. For the first time in three days, he was feeling truly alive.

And now, his whole being was demanding more of it.

With sheer, slightly mad strength, Alex pulled up one of the two remaining hooligan who was dragging himself away and head-butted him. The nose snapped with a very satisfying crunch, and blood flooded down in a fascinating cascade. Letting his disabled prey back down, Alex caught the last of the hooligans who was trying to run away while fumbling with tables and chairs littered across his way.

He jerked his enemy down on his back and straddled him in one swift movement.

"What do you think of a close, very close conversation between you and me, hum?" Alex pursed his bloodied lips. Horror was fighting with anger across the features of the man. He had a crooked nose, a shaved head and a skull tattooed on the side of his bull neck.

"Go fuck yourself, you cunt!" The man defiantly spluttered.

Alex shook slightly his head, grinned a last time and began to punch.

He punched hard, repeatedly, mercilessly. He was enjoying the dull pain spreading in his knuckles and in his hands, and the repeating dull sounds created by flesh hitting flesh. Blood spread everywhere and crimson merged slowly with the red haze that was clouding his sight.

He wanted to cause pain, to cause sheer suffering. He wanted to crush someone, to utterly destroy everything. He was terribly, terribly angry.

Unbearably enraged by how utterly void and meaningless his existence was.

* * *

The shackled man had put his head between his hand. Leaning over the table in the interrogation room, he had not moved nor spoke a single word since he had arrived here at least one hour ago.

James Hale was in duty this night. The young policeman had been teamed with Ed Stephenson, a senior, and their role for the night was to manage some of the arrested people.

Ed stepped out of the interrogation room, eyebrows raised.

"He refuses to answer at any of my questions. I have his phone, though; see if you can call someone who could tell us his name." He handed the device to James, before noting something onto the file.

It was a sleek, black phone, without any identifiable brand. The young man didn't recognize the software either. Perplexed, James checked out the contacts list.

"Odd."

"What?" Ed asked, not turning his gaze off the paper sheet on which he was scribbling something.

"There's only one number in this. No name."

"Try it anyway."

James did as he was told, and waited for someone to pick up at the call.

Two... three.. four ringing tones, and then: "_Dearly speaking._" The voice was male, cultured and firm.

"Hello Mr. Dearly, Chelsea Police Station. I'm calling you because we have arrested the owner of this phone earlier, for assault and battery. We need his name, and you maybe you could help us."

"_Hold on a moment._"

James waited, and threw a glance at his superior, who were still frowning at his report.

"_Could you please tell me what happened?_" The voice was this time female and clipped.

"I'm not sure if I can share to you details, but basically there was a fight between football supporters."

A silence, feeling almost taken aback. _"Football. Supporters._"

"Yes ma'am. Do you know his name? It will greatly help us."

"_Are they all right?_"

James eyebrows shot up. "I'm sorry, who are you talking about?"

"_The supporters. Are they all right? Nobody's dead_?"

"Hu. No. Some are at the hospital right now, though." The young man heard a distinctive sigh of relief. Ed glanced at his way, frowning. "Can you help us or not?"

"_I want to speak to your superior,_" came the authoritative response.

Now thoroughly annoyed, James waved at Ed and mouthed: "They want to speak to you."

Ed nodded and took the phone, sticking it at his left ear while playing with his fountain pen.

"Yes?" The older man bore an almost uninterested look. It morphed soon into an expression of disbelief, then anxiety. "You're kidding, right?" This time, James' senior blanched. "Understood. We'll keep him for the night." He then hang up, and stared at the phone, clearly troubled.

A full minute passed. "So?" said James, tentatively.

Ed snapped out of his thoughts, and sighed. "So, I'm not sure if it was a hoax or not. But I'm willing to play along, because if it's not and I didn't do what has been asked to me, I'm totally screwed."

"Hu?" The young man was utterly lost this time.

"Whatever." Ed waved toward the door of the interrogation room. "This guy is with us for the night. Someone will get him tomorrow morning."

"Seriously? We don't have to interrogate him or whatever?"

"Apparently there's no need for that. She said that it'll serve him right, and it'll help to cool his head."

"You know, I don't get it. This guy has clearly provoked a fight with hooligans, all of them being seasoned fighters, while being _alone_. A witness said he has disabled them in less than two minutes, and he was beating one of them senseless until we tasered him." James paused, and breathed deeply before resuming, "And you know what the woman on the phone asked me? She asked me if someone had died! That smells fishy, I tell you! Who's she anyway?"

Ed shook his head in helplessness. "Sometimes, it's better to not ask questions."

"So, do we have to unshackle him and bring him food," asked James, sarcastic.

The older man waved, uncertain. "Maybe at least a drink." He settled behind a desk, took the report he had been busy to fill in until now and tore it up. He was reaching for a blank form when he shot up a glance at James. "Go."

"Okay, okay, I'm going." The young man ambled away reluctantly.

He filled a glass of water, and made his way toward the room. Swivelling the door open, he stepped in slowly, and put down the plastic cup near the head of the man, wich was resting in his folded arms. Was he sleeping?

"I brought you some water. Apparently, you're here for the night." There was no response.

"You're welcome." James turned and grabbed the door handle.

"You've called. She said I'll stay here until the morning. Right?" The prisoner's words were muffled, yet pretty understandable.

"Yep, that's quite accurate. How did you know?"

The man chose this moment to raise his dark-haired hair and stare at him with slight bloodshot eyes.

James Hales felt his blood turning cold.

He was facing a ghost.

Alex Rider.

One of his good friends at Brookland. The one that had disappeared years ago, nobody knowing where. Some had even said he had died.

Older, matured, oddly black-haired, but it was definitely him, and obviously not dead.

"Alex? Alex Rider? Is that you?"

The prisoner widened his eyes, before a slight look of hesitancy crossed his features. "James Hale?"

James couldn't help his smile. "Wow, Alex. It's been age! What's up with you?"

Alex blinked, seemingly abashed. "Hu, not much. You?"

"Oh, come on, you can surely do better than that?"

"Not really." Alex scoffed lightly. "You know, you guys tasered me one hour ago. That hurt pretty badly. Kind of confused me, too."

"Oh, right.." James shifted, uneasiness invading him. "Sorry about that."

Alex waved. "It will pass. I'm used to it anyway." He groaned, and hit back his head into his arms.

James felt surprise washing through him. "Used to it? Why that, you're really a hooligan?"

"Forget that I ever said that."

"Come on, Alex, what do you do for a living?"

Alex raised again his head, tiredly, like it was weighing ten times its usual weight.

"Protection, body guarding, this kind of stuff."

"Almost like me! I'm on the official side however, and I'm not sure I'm as good as you at fighting, though. We've always had much in common, Alex. I'm glad to know you're all right, there were pretty bad rumours concerning you back to the school, you know." The door opened at this moment, and Ed passed his head through the gap, frowning.

"What're you doing, James?"

"Oh, actually I know him, Ed. This is Alex Rider, a good friend of mine back at the school."

"School, hu? Nice. Anyway, get out of here, James. You're not paid to make conversation with trouble makers."

"Okay, okay, I get it. Alex, we should hang out sometimes and catch up, when you...hu...will be free and stuff."

Alex stared back, before letting a very faint smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah sure, be sure to leave me your number.

Ed and James left the room. The senior policeman grabbed James by his arm and said: "If I were you, I would stay away from him. He's trouble."

"I don't know, he was pretty the nice guy before. Kinda weak though. Always sick."

Ed shook his head. "I know you're perfectly able to take care of yourself, but sometimes, there are things that totally pass beyond our heads. Be careful, at least."

"Okay, will do, but don't worry, I know the guy."

* * *

Alex watched the two men stepped outside of the room. He was still confused, and pain was coursing through his muscles. He took a sip of water, letting the welcomed rejuvenating water down his throat. Bemused, he thought vaguely that maybe, it would actually be nice to go outside and really hang out with an old friend.

But before, he had to pass the night in this less than friendly place, on this hard chair, with a stinging cheek, bruised knuckles and a thoroughly aching body.

Alone. With himself.

"My life sucks."

* * *

_This chapter was a tricky one to write. I would love to hear your thoughts, so, care to leave a review? :)_


	4. Chapter 4

_AN : sorry for the long delay. Thanks to my faithfull readers and reviewers, your support means a lot. _

_Chapter dedicated to Wolfern, thanks again for all you have done for me :)_

* * *

Stormy clouds were running across the sky, occulting the sun. Rain would soon come, and would chase away the people scattered on the street. Most of them were walking with decisiveness pervading each of their steps. Going somewhere, waited by someone, something to do... Purpose filled their life, giving meaning to the simple fact of existing.

A small tinge of emotion stirred in the depths of Alex's heart, too faint to be clearly identified. Anticipation, perhaps; mixed with an odd shade of enviousness, surely. Alex had trouble to analyse his emotional life, and wasn't comfortable with the idea of having this kind of troubled emotions. These had been locked away for years, and he had always prized himself to be able to act coldly, without second thoughts. But it only had been a façade - a mask he had worn against his true self, forcefully imposed to rip away his freewill.

Now, maybe he would be the one striding along the path he would have chosen for himself.

The tinted glass of the car was dulling colours outside, and Alex felt like he was watching at old sepia pictures. Everything was distant. People were only flat, moving shadows belonging to the abstract realm. Alex couldn't relate to any of their preoccupations and couldn't feel concerned by their fate. Deeply, he knew this cold indifference was wrong, that it was a part of the assassin he had still been only two days ago. But this knowledge wasn't enough to bring him to simply care, like he had when he had been younger.

The part of him that was Alex Rider before Dr Three was lost forever. The grieving and caring teenager had died one day, alone, in the engulfing darkness of a cell. He had had to let go of him and had teared his soul apart to survive. Someone different had risen - a blank slate ready to be shaped into the perfect tool, held in place with the regular use of a mere drug.

If he hadn't been this disillusioned, he would be disgusted by himself.

But the false persona had disappeared too, melting away like a snowflake on a warm palm.

The loss of his bearings was frightening, and he felt like he was unbearably tainted. He was not Dale Rierx anymore, nor was he really Alex Rider. He was someone else, and he barely knew how to name himself. His memories filled him like shattered pieces of glass, fragments cutting into his soul that he clung to with bloodied fingers. No past, no future, no ties which mattered whatsoever. Void was taking over his mind, and threatened to carry him down into despair.

Shuttering his eyes against the sudden invasion of distress and leaning against the backseat, Alex snapped out of his drifting thoughts. John Crawley had been the one to pick him up. He had appeared at the door of his holding cell, silent and grim, eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and reprobation in his gaze. Alex felt almost sorry for him that he was still running errands, after all those years. But in a way, it was comforting. Some things hadn't changed.

No one at the police station had raised objection, and he had left without any fuss, like he was nothing more than a ghost. James had given him back his phone with a wink, and Alex had answered with a small smile. Maybe he would bother to call.

The car slowed down and purred to a halt. They were in front of the bank already, and Crawley went around the car to let him out. Rain was beginning to fall, and the heaviness of the first drops presaged a soon pouring. Alex straightened the collar of his jacket, and followed Crawley across the pavement toward the main entrance.

They went through the revolving doors, which lead them in the huge hall. Despite his proportions, the atmosphere was hushed. As soon they had stepped in, the attention of the agents present undercover had focused on them, even if they were seemingly looking somewhere else. Alex's trained senses had spotted five or six snipers in hideouts situated just under the crawlspace of the high ceiling. Surveillance cameras, as well as metal detectors were scattered across the path.

Alex let a wry smile adorning his features. There were undoubtedly other ways in, but this one, aside from conferring a cover, was in fact a vast, well concealed security airlock.

Despite his instinct screaming about danger, he forced his sore body to relax and adopt a casual gait. To a trained eye, the way of walking could reveal a lot about the skill and the overall dangerousness of someone. It was unnecessary to put wary, suspicious and armed guys on edge.

The place hadn't changed since this first time, seven years ago, when he had come looking for answers. Young, naïve and maybe angry; still full of hope and full of life. The truth had flown off the Pandora's box, irremediably dooming his fate and his very existence. And eventually, Jack had paid his foolishness with her life.

Today he felt like an old man: exhausted, sore and world-weary; with no one waiting for him. Of course, he knew he had some value, in both his skills and knowledge, and that was why Mrs Jones seemed to entertain a rather odd fondness towards him. She had indeed spent a lot resources to get her hand back on him. Furthermore, she seemed to know how to deal with him: she hadn't locked him away, nor had forcefully extracted information from him.

He shrugged. It was fine by him anyway: he had nowhere else to go.

Crawley was probably escorting him to her office, if he had read his behavior right. The man hadn't bothered to share even one word with him since he had got him out of his cell. Still seemed to be the overly funny guy.

They headed toward the lift, Alex lagging two steps behind, hands in his pockets, face blank. He hadn't any ID or badge of any kind on him, but no one tried to stop them. Crawley seemed to have the required clearance to bring in anyone without raising question, because Jones hadn't wanted to release any information about him until know, and that included his face.

The lift dinged, and the door opened, letting out a muffled cheerful music. One-way mirrors were covering walls. Crawley hit a button, and the doors closed on the deceptive bank hall.

Few seconds later, they were finally out in the main, bustling hallway of MI6 Headquarters. There were more obvious security checkpoints here, but again, no one came asking anything to them. Crawley lead him toward the door of the office Alex had known belonging to Alan Blunt. The older agent knocked briefly, and stepped aside, gesturing gruffly for Alex to enter. The young man nodded a faint acknowledgement before walking in the room. The door shut behind him.

Seating in a profound leather chair, Jones was perusing some kind of report. She had a pair of reading glasses perched over her nose, and was wearing her usual neat, grey suit. She raised her gaze and smiled thinly, putting aside her elegant fountain pen.

"Ah, Alex, I was waiting for you." She gestured toward one of the guest seats. "Please, sit down. We have to talk."

The carpeting was muffling his steps, conferring a hushed atmosphere to the room. Pinned to the wall, an old fashioned clock was filling silence with ticking seconds. Alex settled himself and extended his tired legs with a relieved sigh.

"Make it quick please. I had a rough night."

Jones raised an eyebrow. "You know, when I said that it was better not to draw attention to you, I meant it. What happened?"

He massaged his right temple with a weary hand. "Nutcases. Tried to knock some sense into them. Don't know if it'll last."

She kept her silence, and stared at him, obviously waiting for a proper explanation. Alex shrugged, before resuming: "I guess I lost my mind for a few minutes." He was feeling rather embarrassed about the whole mess. That really was not like him, and he usually was proud of his cool head. Still, he felt like he had need the sheer, gratuitous violence to set his mind right, to let out some of his conflicted impulses. He had felt truly alive during these few minutes, while adrenalin and action had chanted through his body. Reality had regained a bit of a welcomed clarity, until some policeman had fired his Taser on him, effectively knocking him out cold.

"Right. I'm willing to overlook this Alex, but please, if it happens again, at least ensure you to not get caught. And try to not kill anyone; you're not officially part of MI6."

Frowning, Alex shifted mildly and met her gaze. "What am I, now? What is my status?"

As usual, almost nothing transpired through these dark, beadlike eyes. However, Alex was able to see a flicker of emotion. The fact that Jones was emotionally capable, unlike Blunt, had been almost the sole reason he had decided to trust her. These slivers of humanity were reassuring, and proved he still possessed leverage on her. She cared.

"You're not a prisoner. Alex Rider never has been declared dead, only missing. However, Intelligence agencies knew about your involvement with us, and your reappearance will raise questions. Sadly, you seem to have made quite a lot of personal enemies as Vesper: you just killed too many agents. I'm currently working on trying to keep this side of your identity hushed, but the link will eventually be made." She paused, got up and began to pace across the room. "Your previous success when you worked for us will certainly help us to keep you safe, but I think we will need more details about what has really happened to you."

"Right... I reckon a part of the operation will take care of that?"

Jones nodded. "It's very sensitive information, Alex. Do you think you will be able to gather enough evidences to defend your case?"

He shrugged. "We'll see soon enough." He had one or two guesses about who could help him on this matter, but he wasn't willing to reveal too much about certain parts of his previous life.

"Why do you trust me anyway? It could be load of crap for all you know," he asked.

Jones sat back into the chair and sighed, fingers crossing while she rested her hands in her lap. "Until now, everything has been consistent. When you chose to not kill me, you have stepped toward your freedom all by yourself. The better way to help you gather your bearings is to show you trust. Keeping you inside and restraining your movements would certainly not help to build mutual trust."

Alex nodded, acknowledging the wisdom of her words.

"What are you? Some kind of therapist?"

Jones shook her head. "You know, being able to predict behaviour is a rather useful skill in the job. Anyway, I understand that you don't want to share anything with me, but it will do you some good to open up a bit to someone. Speak about what you have been through. It will only help to sort your thoughts, and get better." She stopped, and took a second to detail his face.

He tried to remain impassive, but he was kind of tired to be always tense and guarded. His bearings were blurred, when not totally lost, and Jones was posing as one of the only things that had remained the same all these years. She was like an anchor; cold, calculating, yet oddly protective.

He averted his gaze, unsettled, and rubbed slightly his chin. "Sounds wise. Still, I don't know anyone who could listen to me without thinking I'm completely insane."

"Find someone to speak with anyway. I'm here. Derek is a good listener at times. But you haven't to share everything either." She tilted her head, and suggested with a soft, breezing voice, so unlike of her usual clipped way to form words: "Maybe you could visit old acquaintances?"

Alex tried to not grit his teeth. Of course she was aware of everything that had happened. She was at the peak of the intelligence chain food. Yet, Alex couldn't help to feel annoyed by the plain refusal of any intimacy. Every move, every word from him was surely thoroughly overanalysed. He shook his head, knowing that he had to bear with it for now. The little stunt he had pulled with the hooligans the evening before had surely not helped.

"Yeah, maybe I could do that. He gave me his phone number," he said quietly. "He seems like a nice bloke."

"Do you have other people you would like to meet again? I believe there was some people who were genuinely caring for you. When you have disappeared, few of them have tried to investigate. Some have not stopped to ask questions, though."

"Really?" Alex perked up a little. "Who?"

Jones tapped the page she had set aside earlier, and flashed a thin smile. "I have names, here. Would you like to take a look?"

Alex blinked. Knowing that some of his previous acquaintance still cared about him was oddly touching him. Emotions were still dulled and muffled, but he could felt them stirring lazily. His previous life still felt abstract, disembodied and distant. He was moved, but the anticipation was laced with fear. He was tempted to let everything go, and begin a whole new life. But old ties had found again the way towards his heart, and he couldn't bring himself to separate himself more from the child he had been.

"Yeah..." His voice cracked slightly. "Yes, I would."

Jones smiled frankly this time, and crow's feet appeared at the sides of her eyes.

"I put some information as well, like what they are doing now and where they are living." She slowly folded the paper while talking, and slid it towards him.

"Thanks, I'll check it later." Alex took the paper with careful motions, like it was made of glass. Jones was keeping her gaze locked onto him, face impassive again. A minute passed, filled only by the ticking of the clock. Alex didn't knew what to think. His old life was distant, but remained important to him. He was convinced that answers were lying between the folds of his old ties. Jones seemed to think the same too.

"I'm feeling better." In truth, he was still shaky and wobbly at times, but he guessed that a few of full night's sleep would fix that.

She nodded, before leaning back in her deep leather chair.

"So, what do you want to do until then?"

Alex raised an eyebrow, and kept his silence, waiting for clarification. Jones remained still for two seconds, before continuing with a sigh.

"Obviously, we can't use your competence in assassination right now. I'm asking you - and this apply also to your life after the operation - what do you want to do with your time? Do you want to be a MI6 agent? Do you want to lead a normal life? Have you thought about that?" Her voice was holding a faint, yet genuine trace of curiosity.

The young man had his two eyebrows up now. He was slightly destabilised by this question, and felt almost bad for not having even think once about this. He had trouble to picturing himself doing other activities than the ones he had been trained to do all his life. Still, in a weird way, it felt nice to tell himself that his fate was not traced yet. He had still the power to choose the path. But had he really more than one way opened for him? Or were choices only deception, hiding the fact that all these routes were in fact leading to the same destination?

"I really don't know," he answered hesitantly. "What kind of thing I could do? I haven't any degree. Who would hire me?"

"I'm sure that you know a thing or two that could be applied to an innocuous job."

"You would really let me choose?"

"Of course, Alex. Who do you think I am?" She sounded oddly expectant, like she was waiting for something. Alex had not the slightest clue of what, but replied anyway: "The head of MI6, paid to have no qualm about using human tools?"

Her lips curled up. "Quite true, but like I said before, I rather use someone who are willing to be used. It's up to you, Alex, and I would like to see you think about it."

The young man shrugged. "Have any idea of what I could do?"

"I might have one or two." Alex didn't know why, but he didn't like her tone at this moment. She looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary.

* * *

A desk job.

A bloody desk job. Right in the middle of an open workspace, between two dividers, with no less than other forty other agents. She had to put him behind a desk, with co-workers, hours, _lunch break_... Alex stared at his screen. It was his first day, and he was already bored out of his mind. A huge part of the Intelligence was indeed mere data analysis. Gathering information was one thing, but putting sense behind facts and linking data to a biggest network was another thing. Alex was ready to swear that it was the dullest job ever after passing few hours on the processing of few hundreds emails of suspected individuals.

His knowledge of Spanish had been put in use, and he was reading boring exchanges that had triggered some surveillance software at the Government Communications Headquarters, and now he was the one who had to determine if the threat was real or not.

For now, he had be able to solve a very tricky situation involving bullfighting and animals rights activists. Seriously.

Alex stretched out, and massed his temples. Coffee. That was definitely a good idea. He got up and strolled towards the coffee machine at the far back of the huge room. Tables and benches were situated next to it, and five peoples were currently taking a break. Jones hadn't personally introduced him. She had told him through Smithers that he was waited the next morning in the hall n°5 of the first basement level of the bank.

A rather cute brunette with steely grey eyes, in her mid-thirties, had gone to pick him up and had led him here with few dry sentences to explain him the job. After a perfunctory show of the tool he would have to use, she had left him without even one look behind her shoulder, muttering indistinctly in her breath. Alex believed he had heard words along 'bloody newbie' and 'wasting my time'. Bitch.

Alex reached the machine, and slammed rather harshly the 'double' button. Waiting few seconds for his drink to be filled, he looked around. No one was paying attention to him, aside occasional glances in his general direction. No one went to ask him any question. He shrugged. Surely they had learned a long time ago to not question anything that was coming from their superiors.

Underlings, like he was and had always been.

He made his way back to his computer, and let escape a small sigh between his lips. Passing a hand through his hair in a tired motion, he stared at the black screen.

Jones had promised to let him participate at the operation but had put one crucial condition: he had to prove he was trustworthy. Hell, he wouldn't trust himself in her shoes. After all, he had been close to kill her. He didn't understand the strange fondness she seemed to keep towards him. If it had been Blunt instead of her, Alex was sure he would rot in a cell right now.

On the other side, he kind of understood her. He didn't have anywhere to go, and she had astutely grasped his deep need to remain useful to someone.

He had been shaped like this, and was still struggling with the most basic lines of the conditioning. Smithers had told him it would take time. Jones had hinted he needed to form new bonds after cutting all ties that attached him to Dale Rierx. All of this sounded quite rational, but he sure hated this situation.

Sighing heavily once more, he got a somewhat annoyed glare over the screen of the man opposite. Alex raised a challenging eyebrow while again letting out an exaggerated breath. Maybe aggravating co-workers could be an all right time killer...

* * *

_**Evening_star has entered the chat.**_

_**Evening_star :**__ you planned everything, did you?_

_**Phoenix:**__ How are you?_

_**Evening_star:**__ fine, I guess. I still don't know if I have to thank you_

_**Phoenix:**__ Boss is waiting. Becomes suspicious too, I think. You usually don't take this long to complete your missions._

_**Evening_star: **__I'll come back soon. You maybe don't wanna be around then._

_**Phoenix: **__I think I'm being watched, but I don't know by whom._

_**Phoenix: **__Don't worry; I can take care of myself._

_**Evening_star: **__okay_

_**Evening_star:**__ back then, did you know what they were doing to me?_

_**Phoenix: **__I knew. You weren't the first, though. I guess that dealing with dr Three for years has somewhat dulled my empathy for his tests subjects._

_**Evening_star: **__so all this shit is a kind of twisted mean to redeem you?_

_**Phoenix: **__I owe you for killing Dr Three (yes I know it was you)._

_**Phoenix: **__The least I could do was to set you free in turn._

_**Phoenix: **__Now, it's up to you to find what to do with your freedom._

_**Evening_star: **__all my life someone has told me what to do. I feel like I'm totally unable to decide by myself._

_**Phoenix:**__ At least I see a progression. Dale was simply unable to ask himself this kind of questions._

_**Evening_star:**__ that's not my name anymore._

_**Phoenix:**__ I know, Alex. You're young, talented. Have faith. Life awaits you._

_**Phoenix:**__ Have to go. Send me a warning when you plan to come back. Or not. Depends if you want to forgive me._

_**Phoenix left.**_

* * *

James let a heartily laugh escape his lips. "Yeah, that was good times," he said, wistfulness colouring faintly his words. "Feels like it was only yesterday!"

Night had fallen. The café, clean and colourful, was brightly illuminated. The rhythmic sound of old sixties tubes was pouring out of well concealed speakers, adding joy to the warm atmosphere. James had picked a place that resembled him: cheerful, honest, welcoming. Alex had called him earlier, on a whim, while eyeing Smithers working on whatever new super gadget, and after spending nearly an hour pondering over the sheet Jones had given him. He knew the people on this paper would surely be glad to know he wasn't dead, but he knew as well these people would have a lot of questions, and Alex wasn't ready to answer any of them.

Alex hummed. "I don't know, for me it's like it was a lifetime ago. I'm not the same person anymore."

"I know what you mean, we're getting old, wrinkled, stuffed under a big mountain called routine." James stabbed his pie with a gesture full of conviction. "But don't worry, youth is mainly a state of mind, and your job has to be exciting at times!"

Alex couldn't help to let the sides of his mouth quirk a little. "Yeah, about that, I changed job, I'm an office worker now. Pretty dull if you ask me, but soon I'll be sent abroad."

"Wonderful! Where to?"

Alex shrugged. "I don't know the specific." He had in fact a pretty precise idea, but this information had to be classified.

"It's always nice to see something else anyway. We went in Greece with Janet last summer, and that was a pretty amazing thing to do."

"Janet?"

"My girlfriend. She's older than me, speaks five languages and wants to be an interpreter. We're moving in Portsmouth next month to let her finish her studies. I'm fairly proud of her."

"She seems like an interesting person."

"Yeah, she's very busy these days, but I hope you'll meet her soon."

Alex let James fill the most of the conversation, nudging him to speak more of innocuous subjects and driving topics far from the past and his personal life. James' job was important for him, and he seemed to be very involved. And that was surely why the events of the days prior were suddenly broached.

"They said it was a gas pipe that has exploded, but I tell you, it's something you can tell very quickly, and to see how many soldiers who were deployed that night... I'm sure there is something fishy behind this." James then gulped the last mouthful of his beer, before continuing. "They have told us to keep the way clear. Boss told me they had at least five helicopters deployed. They were probably looking for someone." He shook his head. "And it's sad, because there has to be someone responsible for the five deaths, and no one can guarantee to families that justice has been done."

Alex knew it wasn't five deaths, but close to eight or nine with Jones' protection team he had killed, and all for a failed mission. Unease, along a vague feeling of disgust washed through is mind.

"There are a lot of things going on and we don't know the half," he said, a bit cowardly.

James nodded, gloom freely displayed on his face. Maybe someone would take advantage of his openness one day, but this honesty was, in a way, a strength as well.

Nothing stood between reality and his true self. James would be easily manipulated by someone else, but at least never by himself. That wasn't something Alex could say about himself, and he knew the price of his failure.

But first, he had to square things up with some people.

* * *

Next time : a load of action, and K-Unit's return :)


End file.
